


Over Troubled Water

by Palebluedot



Series: Over Troubled Water [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: (provided your stucky goggles are secured firmly to your face during TFA), Angst, Artist Steve Rogers, Brooklyn, Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-War, Secret Relationship, references to drafting, well the war's a thing but they're not in it yet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-09-02 19:34:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8680708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Palebluedot/pseuds/Palebluedot
Summary: “Shut it, Barnes.” Steve shakes his head up at Bucky just like he knew he would, eyes bright and fond and trying to be tired of his shit, and Bucky wishes like hell Steve hadn't decided to have this conversation out in public, because it's taking all he's got not to kiss him right now. Then his gaze lingers a little long over Bucky's face, and there's something new and wistful and wavering in his smile. “I'm gonna miss you, is all.”





	

The sky always looks bluer in September. True and deep, like if you fell into it, it'd blow like cool smoke against your skin. Maybe, like the sunsets trapped in the leaves, it's a last blessing before all the flowers in the window boxes and the parks and the cracks in the sidewalks croak and everyone starts getting sick.

Bucky wonders if anyone can see that sky in Europe anymore, if there's ever a break in the clouds of ash and soot burned from stuff that used to be cities, or if it even matters since everyone's huddled in their bomb shelters half the time, anyway. Even though the sweet breeze lilting through the window promises that summer weather's not quite through, Bucky shivers, then decides he doesn't want to think about German bombs or winter coughs anymore. Slowly, carefully – can't wake Steve – he reaches up and yanks the curtains shut.

~+~+~+~+~+~

When Bucky wakes up for the second time that morning, it's with a jolt and a bitten-off yell. His breath stutters, and when he runs his hand over his face, it comes away damp. He still tastes the dream-blood coating his teeth. Sitting there in the dark, heart punching his ribs, he wonders what the hell he's supposed to do with himself. He's never been in a battle, never got the chance to get shell-shocked, so why does he have to dream about muddy trenches and catching a gut full of shrapnel?

Well, he knows why. It's obvious, really. No, he's never been in a battle – not yet.

Gingerly, he lowers himself back down to the mattress, grateful that Steve rolled off his chest at some point in the night so he didn't catapult him across the room when he jerked awake. Smiling a little at the picture of the confused, sleepy glare Steve would've fixed him with, Bucky turns on his side to look at him. Steve's still knocked out, bless him, his hands pillowed under his head and his breath coming slow and deep. Pretty as a picture, and warm to the touch.

Bucky's eager to shake away the last scraps of nightmare, and besides, it's _Saturday_ , so he leans over and smacks a big, obnoxious kiss on Steve's cheek. “Rise and shine, Stevie!” he croons right in his ear, all sing-song.

It works. Steve screws up his face and pries one eye open. “Go 'way,” he grumbles, burying his face in their pillow. Bucky grins. Somehow, Steve's gone and made a morning person out of him.

“Aw, you don't mean that,” he whines, and throws the blankets off of them both with a gleeful flourish. “Time to go and greet the world!”

“The world,” Steve declares, pillow-muffled, “can stuff it. An' so can you, Barnes.”

Bucky tuts. “You're breaking my heart, doll.” And with that, he plants his knees on either side of Steve's waist and gives his shoulders a shake. “Ain't you awake yet?”

“ _No_.”

“Well, here, lemme help you,” Bucky offers, and pokes him in the ribs. Steve squirms and bats his hand away, and god _damn_ , Bucky loves knowing where he's ticklish. He's about to go in for another jab, but then Steve whacks him with the pillow, just about toppling him over. After a moment's disorientation, Bucky grabs for it and wrestles it out of Steve's grip, triumphant. “Now let's see...” he says, mock-thoughtful as he turns the pillow over in his hands, right outside Steve's persistent reach. “ _What_ should I do with _this_? You got any ideas for me, Rogers?”

“James _Buchanan_ Barnes,” Steve warns, and his eyes glint like crushed glass – but there's the barest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “if you don't quit antagonizing me, I swear I'll get my fella to come and teach you a lesson.”

“Oh, yeah?” Bucky chucks the pillow to the foot of the thin bed and braces his forearms on either side of Steve's wiry shoulders, leaning in close. “He a big guy, your fella? Real tough?”

“Well, _he_ sure thinks he is,” Steve drawls, all pleased with himself, the punk. “And he's kinda dopey, and annoying as hell – but he's crazy about me, so I let him hang around.”

Bucky smirks. “Crazy about you, huh? Well, he'd have to be crazy _not_ to be, look at you,” he murmurs. Their noses brush as he inches closer. Before he can get around to kissing him, though, Steve presses a finger to his lips and holds him half a breath away.

“If you think you're sweet-talking your way back into my good graces, you've got another thing coming,” Steve nearly whispers, his eyes smiling.

“Now, would I do that?” Bucky asks, his best innocent voice squashed by Steve's finger. He pulls Steve's hand away from his mouth and holds onto it, turns it over and traces the lines stitched into his palm. Steve's hands are a mess, all knobbly bones and big pencil callouses and bits of charcoal stuck under his bitten-off nails. Bucky could look at them all day. Instead he sighs, nice and theatrical. “Well, how about breakfast? Would that bust me outta the doghouse?”

Steve wrinkles his nose. “Depends. You planning on cooking?”

“You should be so lucky,” Bucky professes. “But it just so happens I've got fifteen cents burnin' a hole through my pocket and a real hankering for a pastrami sandwich from a certain deli down the street. If you're lucky, I'll split it with you.”

Steve's eyes just about triple in size. “No shit?”

“Nope,” Bucky grins. “Boss gave me a raise on account of my charming disposition. He told me to use it to show some dame a good time, and because I neglected to mention that the “some dame” I had in mind was named _Steve_ , I even got to keep it.” Steve's eyes sparkle when he laughs, and Bucky's soften to see it. He taps the tip of Steve's nose with one finger. “But you have to promise not to tell that fella of yours. He sounds like the jealous type, and I can't afford to let him bust up my pretty face.”

“What he doesn't know won't kill him,” Steve agrees, looking so mischievous that Bucky could almost forget they're hiding their little secret away from the whole world, and not just some poor, unlucky stiff.

“I sure hope not, sounds like you hit the jackpot,” Bucky says all close, lips grazing skin, and he absentmindedly trails his fingers through Steve's bedhead, just to prove the point. “Be a real shame if he died on you over some lousy sandwich.”

“Maybe a little,” Steve concedes, and this time, when Bucky presses in that half a breath more, he doesn't stop him short, just kisses him back, slow and warm with morning laziness. Bucky melts. They've been making old Sister Mary spin like a top in her grave since they were teenagers, but he doesn't think he'll ever get past the thrill of starting his days off so damn sweet. Steve pulls back, then thinks better of it, going back for one more smack before pressing their foreheads together. “So, the deli, huh?” he murmurs.

“Yeah, that sound good?”

“Sounds perfect,” Steve says, glowing prettily up at Bucky. “Just one thing I've gotta take care of, first.”

“And what's that?” Bucky asks, hoping it's got something to do with kissing.

“This.” Before Bucky can blink, there's sharp pressure on his hips and his shoulder, then he's flat on his back, the mattress creaking beneath him and Steve perched on top of him, posed like a wildcat about to pounce. He taps Bucky's chest, grinning Cheshire-wide. “That's for being such a brat and waking me up,” he informs him primly, then swoops down for a quick peck before jumping off the bed, leaving Bucky bouncing. “You comin', or what?”

Bucky turns on his side and watches him cross the room, stripping out of the shirt he'd stolen from Bucky's drawer ages ago to sleep in, and not for the first time that morning, takes a moment to admire the view and thank his lucky stars.

~+~+~+~+~+~

Mr. Rosen shakes his head behind the gleaming counter as he piles together the sandwich, the smell of the pastrami already making Bucky's mouth water. “I swear, you and that Rogers boy must want me out of business, tricking me into feeding the both of you for the price of one. It's a wonder I still let you bums in here, after so many years of breaking an old man's heart.” His eyes smile from behind his spectacles as he says it, though, and as usual, Bucky doesn't comment on the fact that he's already cut the sandwich into two neat triangles.

“Believe me, Mr. Rosen, if I ever come into a fortune, you'll be the first to know,” Bucky says, taking the paper bag. “Except my ma, of course.”

“I'll hold you to that,” Mr. Rosen warns, wagging a finger. “You boys enjoy your lunch.”

Bucky throws a wave over his shoulder on his way out the door. He finds Steve at one of the two rickety tables on the sidewalk outside the deli, the other occupied by a soldier in a sharp uniform and a pretty dame with curly blonde hair and a polka-dotted dress. Something about the pair of them draws Bucky's eye for a spell, then he realizes what it is – the diamond the lady's wearing on her left ring finger throws the light something fierce, even though the stone's not all that big.

Sitting down next to Steve and handing him his half of the sandwich, Bucky sees he's been looking at the other couple, too. “They look happy,” he says, like he could hear Bucky thinking about them.

They do. Bucky suspects they wouldn't even notice if the Germans bombed the city right then and there, they're so busy staring into each other's eyes. “Bet you he put that ring on her finger just this morning. He's probably shipping out tomorrow, doesn't want her to forget about him.”

“No,” says Steve, ripping off a chunk of sandwich with a little too much vigor. “If her fella were shipping out soon, she wouldn't look half so happy.”

Bucky suddenly remembers his nightmare, and after chewing on his tongue for a bit, decides he can't bear to sit on it any longer. He gestures to the soldier's uniform. “I'll be wearing one of those soon, I suppose.”

“Don't you even _think_ about wearing it at home,” Steve snaps, and the air between them drops fifteen degrees. “I never wanna see you like that, you hear?”

All Bucky can manage is to blink at him, dumbfounded. “That's a hell of a thing to say.”

“Well, what the hell am I _supposed_ to say?” Steve says on a mirthless laugh. He wrenches his voice into something high-pitched and hysterical. “ _Gee, Buck, I sure am happy_ _you're going off to get shot at_ _, see you later if you don't get your head blown off, don't forget to write_?”

Blood pounds hot in Bucky's ears, clouding his vision. “You can't say shit like that just because you wish it'll be you instead of me, that ain't fair – ”

“Yeah,” Steve bites out, and turns his burning glare towards the lovebirds at the next table over. “Nothing about this is _fair_.”

They don't seem to notice that they've suddenly become the targets of Steve's wrath, just keep talking and laughing softly, looking at each other like there's nothing else. Bucky wishes he could be as happy as that soldier beaming at his fiancée next to him, because then he'd be so high up on cloud nine, he wouldn't feel the bullets pushing into his skin like fingers into butter with every step, and he wouldn't see Steve shove his chair out and storm off, hands fisted in his pockets and blue fire in his eyes.

He knows that's stupid. Like he could ever be that glad with Steve walking away from him, anyhow. Sick to his core, he throws down his half of their sandwich and follows him.

~+~+~+~+~+~

After a long day of hardly speaking, Steve turns to Bucky and asks if he'd like take a stroll across the Brooklyn Bridge. Bucky's still feeling like a stupid bastard over that morning, but he's not too dumb to recognize an olive branch when he sees one, so he just nods and grabs his hat. They walk there often, and it's always Steve's idea. He likes to say it's for the fresh air, or the exercise, but Bucky knows it's that old artist's soul of his longing for the distant skylines, the towering stone arches, the crisscrossing cables and beams that raise you up halfway to the sky.

But he doesn't bring his sketchbook this time, which makes Bucky all kinds of nervous. Steve loves drawing the bridge, there must be a million pictures of the thing traced out in charcoal and ink piled up in all his books. Most of them feature Bucky in some capacity, because living in sin with an artist seems to mean winding up an unpaid model half the time you're awake. It's one of the perks, right up there with those sweet little pencil smudges, the ones Bucky's got no idea how they end up on Steve's _face_ , but he loves to look at and tease him over and press his lips to all the same.

Steve hasn't picked up his sketchbook once all day, and Bucky's feeling like he's gone and ripped the wings off a butterfly.

So they just walk, Bucky sticking right to Steve's side, but neither of them saying much. Steve furrows his brow and squints down at the planks instead of the bridge, or the sky, or even Bucky, and Bucky has to shove his hands in his pockets to stop himself from trying to reach for Steve's. That long face of his tugs at Bucky to _do_ something, make it better somehow, but they're drowning in a sea of unfamiliar eyes, they've got a bitch of an elephant in the room stamping the ground, and for once in his life, Bucky can't think of a goddamn thing to say. The bridge is noisy. Traffic rumbles below them and people buzz like bees with their chatter, but with Steve not talking to him, all clammed up and hurting, Bucky might as well be trapped in a monastery, silence pressing heavy on all sides, bruising his skin.

When they reach the first archway, Steve stops in his tracks. “I'm not mad at you,” he says, talking to the river.

“Coulda fooled me,” Bucky snipes, then winces, feeling like he's somehow managed to release a long and storied lifetime of stupid all in one go.

But Steve only nods. “I deserve that. I shouldn't have blown up at you like I did.”

“No, Steve, it's – ” Bucky grapples as best he can with the heavy, taloned presence that's taken up residence in his chest, but it refuses to name itself. “It's a mess,” he decides, wishing he could do better. “Anyone would get upset.”

“Well, I'm still sorry.” Steve shoots right through Bucky with those eyes of his, just about strikes him dead. “You know I'm real proud of you, right?”

There's a lightness in Bucky's stomach then, a weight lifted. “You are?” he rasps.

Steve huffs. “Course I am. Goin' over there...someone's gotta do it. And you're the bravest guy I know. Smartest, too. They couldn't ask for anyone better.”

Bucky gapes – the hell's he supposed to say to something like _that_? The traffic rushing below them and the crowd flowing behind them make all manner of noise, but Bucky doesn't think that the whole city screaming out at once could even come close to conveying his relief, his guilt, the sheer depth of gratitude he feels for his best friend, the love of his goddamn life. When he finally lands on something that sounds right, his voice comes out rough. “Well, you oughta meet my old pal Steve, then. Far as I'm concerned, he's the bravest guy this side of the Atlantic.” He cracks a grin he doesn't quite feel. “Definitely not the smartest, though.”

“Shut it, Barnes.” Steve shakes his head up at Bucky just like he knew he would, eyes bright and fond and trying to be tired of his shit, and Bucky wishes like hell Steve hadn't decided to have this conversation out in public, because it's taking all he's got not to kiss him right now. Then his gaze lingers a little long over Bucky's face, and there's something new and wistful and wavering in his smile. “I'm gonna miss you, is all.”

“Aw, Steve –”

“Gonna miss you like someone tore a hole through me,” Steve chokes, voice too thick, and he turns his back to the bustling crowd, grips the railing with both hands. He always hates for anyone to see him cry, Bucky realizes dimly, and his heart cracks right down the center.

Standing there, listening to Steve sniffling and battling to pull himself together, Bucky's never felt like a more useless asshole in his life. It hurts like hell not to try and comfort him, especially when it's all his fault, but Bucky learned back when they were skinning knees and losing teeth that if Steve ever hurts so bad that he's choking up, he usually wants quiet. So he cozies up next to him just as close as he dares, barely letting their elbows brush, pretends he doesn't see him wipe his sleeve across his face, and doesn't say a word.

Steve's knuckles have gone white where they're welded to the railing. He sucks in a shuddering breath. “An' I'm _scared_ ,” he presses on through a locked-up jaw, shoulders still quivering. “I'm scared that – that something awful's gonna happen to you, and I'll be a million miles away.” He doesn't say _I'm scared you'll get your stupid head blown off_ _and I'll never see you again_ , and Bucky's grateful for that, but the truth is, he doesn't have to say it. It's always on his mind. “An' I know I've got no right to feel like this when I'd give anything to go myself, the hell with what you think, but I can't help it, Buck. You're scaring me to death.”

Steve blinks furiously, chest stuttering, and the East River rolls on, uncaring. At last, he takes a long breath, and except for a heavy redness in his eyes, could pass for fine. Bucky wonders how much water's passed underneath their feet since they stepped on this bridge, how long until it'll find its way to the sea. “I'm sorry,” he mumbles, staring down at his hands. “Wish I didn't have to go, but...” The words taste hollow and metallic and _useless_ on his tongue, but they're all he has.

“I know,” Steve tells him, and Bucky knows it's the truth. “Let's go.”

Steve turns on his heels and starts to walk back the way they came, hands stuffed in his pockets and eyes fixed on his shoes. It breaks Bucky's heart. He just can't let it stand. Before he can stop himself, Bucky slings his arm around his shoulders – they can get away with this, at least. “Aw, lighten up, pal, I'm not leaving just yet. You can't get rid of me _that_ easy.” He gives Steve a squeeze before dropping his arm, and dares to hope for a moment that the hint of softness around the corners of Steve's mouth might be because of him.

He bumps Steve's shoulder. Steve bumps his back. And it's bittersweet as hell when they're both so desperate to cheer each other up that they're willing to wear plastic smiles and pretend they don't pinch, but it's a damn sight better than staying miserable without anybody stubbornly kicking you like a rusty can down the road to better days, so even though everything isn't okay, Bucky grins and ruffles Steve's hair, and Steve bats him away, and they're twelve years old again and Steve's rolling his eyes up at Bucky instead of staring down at his feet.

Suddenly, Steve stops in his tracks and turns back to the water. He lets out a low whistle, and Bucky hadn't even noticed the sun was setting, but there it is, a ball of red fire on the river, clouds hanging heavy and color-saturated all around. “Wish I'd brought my sketchbook,” Steve sighs, and it's music to Bucky's ears.

“Bedroom window faces west, mostly,” Bucky offers. “Won't be as pretty as from the bridge, but if we hurry, you might be able to catch the end of it.”

“Yeah,” Steve nods. “I'd like that.”

They're gonna be alright, Bucky realizes, and the conviction of it burns fierce through his chest with every step he takes towards home. War and heartache be damned, they're gonna make it out alright.

~+~+~+~+~+~

“Hold _still_ , Buck,” Steve chides without glancing up.

Bucky tilts his head to see Steve's paper and snags a glimpse of his own face before Steve snatches it away. “You said you were doing the sunset!”

Steve holds up the stick of black in his hand and rolls his eyes. “With charcoal? Pretty dull sunset. Did you really think I asked you to sit up there just to hold the curtains back?”

In a whirl of theatrics, Bucky's jaw drops. “ _Steven Grant Rogers_ , if your _mother_ could see you telling tales like this – ”

“Hey, it's your fault for buying it,” Steve shrugs, grinning like he's sitting on a royal flush. “Now hold still already, you fidget too much.”

Bucky shakes his head, but freezes his limbs in place all the same. “You're unbelievable,” he tells him, and Steve doesn't answer, so Bucky keeps on watching him. The fading light splashes golden across the windowsill where Bucky's perched, spills shadows across the apartment like ink, and Steve squints against it, working furiously to beat the darkness. In between the scratching and scribbling, he blows bits of black dust out of the way, worries the corner of the paper between his fingers, curses under his breath. It's goddamn mesmerizing, and it's only been a few hours, but Bucky's _missed_ this –

It hits him like a broken nose. Over there, he'll go for months and months _,_ goddamn _years_ , without hearing the scrape of charcoal on cheap paper. If he blows himself up, he'll never see the pride in Steve's eyes when he finishes another drawing – _masterpieces_ , Bucky calls them, and Steve blushes and socks his shoulder and tells him to shut up and get serious, but he is, he's so serious, every time – or sit still, not scratching his nose, until Steve's finished working his magic for the day.

Would Steve ever draw him again after he got the news, do a portrait of his poor dead soldier? _Could_ he? Does he have the geometry of Bucky memorized under his fingertips, and know just where to smudge the lines to add that bit of shading?

Will Bucky still know every line and curve and pencil smudge of Steve's face if he manages to swim home to him? Would Steve recognize him as the man in all those pictures?

Bucky could tumble from this windowsill and right onto their fire escape, he's so queasy, so sick in the head. Steve's eyes flit up from the paper, probably to check his progress, and when he finds Bucky staring and staring at him, he doesn't scold him for turning his head so far off course. Just smiles at him a moment, soft and fond and kind. Blink and you'd miss it – he's soon right back at it, tracing out whatever he saw in clean black lines. But Bucky doesn't miss it. He grabs for it with desperate fingers and presses it like a flower in his memory, vowing to never forget one single thing about that miracle called Steve Rogers, even if the war lasts a hundred years.

Steve glances up at him again, and it's Bucky's turn to wear a dopey smile – there's a little smear of charcoal across his temple that wasn't there only a moment ago. Like everything else about Steve, it must've gotten there by pure, stubborn magic.

“What're you staring at?” Steve asks, crinkling his brow up at Bucky like he just can't figure him out.

“You've got a little...” Bucky motions vaguely to his forehead.

Steve wipes the back of his hand over the exact wrong side of his face. “Did I get it?”

Bucky shakes his head, and he's never been gladder of an excuse to move. “Here, lemme help.” Before Steve can squawk about how he's supposed to stay still, he hops down from the windowsill and crosses over to kneel between the vee of Steve's legs. The curtains flutter closed behind him, throwing the room into shadow. He reaches up and wipes at the spot with his thumb, Steve's eyes on him. It doesn't quite rub off all the way, but Bucky likes the look of it, so he lets it be. “There. That's better.” Then, because he just can't help himself, he leans forward and kisses the ghost of the mark, real soft.

“ _Buck_ ,” Steve sighs, like he's trying to be annoyed with him. From the way he's leaning into his touch, though, Bucky can tell it's just for show.

“What?” He presses another kiss to the soft skin just below Steve's ear. “Just tryin' to help you get cleaned up. You're wearing half of that charcoal I bought you.”

“Is that right?” Steve hums, and Bucky can hear his smile.

“Yeah, doll.” His lips wander over the curve of Steve's jaw, the jut of his cheekbone, the tip of his nose. “That's right.”

“You'd think I'd have noticed gettin' this much charcoal on my face,” Steve deadpans, the smartass, even as he winds his bony fingers through the hair at the nape of Bucky's neck and tugs just enough to drive him crazy.

Bucky grins and pulls back to look into Steve's eyes, and could burst with pride at seeing how they've gone hazy, all warm and dreamlike. He cradles Steve's jaw in his hand, massaging little circles over his pulse point with his thumb, just to keep him looking at him like that, like he's drunk on Bucky's touch. “Well, then it's a good thing you've got me lookin' out for you, huh?”

“Yeah. Real good thing.” Steve smiles, and Bucky's chest floods with the warmth of it. “Think you've got it all?”

“No, not by a long shot. Why, you've got the biggest smudge I've ever seen right...here.” And he drags his thumb down the swell of Steve's bottom lip, gentle and purposeful.

Steve raises his eyebrows. “Oh, yeah? You gonna do something about it?” Even through all the lazy serenity shining off Steve's face like starlight, there's a challenge in those words, and Bucky's never been any good at resisting temptation. So he leans in nice and slow, tilts Steve's chin up with one bent finger and kisses him like he's shipping out tomorrow. Steve melts into it immediately, just about falls off his chair surging forward to press their chests together. Bucky hooks an arm around his waist and digs his fingers into his back, pulling him close and holding him steady. He nibbles at Steve's bottom lip, and _Jesus_ , the choked-off little moan that comes sighing out of his throat is worth every mistake Bucky's ever made. Gradually, he works Steve up 'til he's good and boneless in his arms, tugging at his lips with his own and rubbing patterns into his spine, making him arch like a cat under his touch and draw his hand into a fist where it's still tangled in Bucky's hair.

Bucky opens eyes he can't for the life of him remember closing and breaks away, reveling in the sight of the flush he painted on Steve's cheeks, and the way Steve chases after him, trying to slot their lips back together. Dodging him, Bucky tilts his head back towards the windowsill, the golden light puddling on the floor. “So, you want me to climb back up there and pose for you some more?” He grins at the red-hot glare Steve fixes him with, thanking whoever the hell throws the switches upstairs these days for blessing him with this spitfire stuffed inside a firecracker, all wrapped up in a dime-bright pair of baby blues.

“Shut up and kiss me, Barnes, haven't got all night,” Steve growls, as if to remind Bucky that he'll never kiss the fight out of him, no matter how hard he tries. So Bucky tries again. For just as long as his lips taste the heat from Steve's skin, Bucky believes they've got all the time in the world.

~+~+~+~+~+~

That damn tomcat's hollering outside their window again, wailing and carrying on like the world's fallen on his tail, and people aren't trying to fuckin' _sleep_. Bucky's tempted to go and slam the window shut, just to show him, but he's all tangled up in sheets and bony limbs, and he's _tired_. He can barely hold his eyes open, much less bring himself to roll out of bed for anything that doesn't come with sirens.

“Look who's back,” Bucky murmurs into Steve's temple. “Got ourselves our own private concert.”

“Lucky us,” Steve hums, and Bucky feels it when he smiles.

He tilts his head down to look at Steve better, and finds a vision staring back – hair all mussed from the pillow and Bucky's hands, with just enough sweat cooling on his skin to make him glow in the dimness. “Yeah? You feelin' lucky?”

“Well,” Steve grins, and every scrap of lamplight that somehow sneaks in from the street outside glints right off his eyes, “I did just _get_ pretty lucky.”

An honest-to-God _giggle_ bubbles out of Bucky. “You're shit, Rogers.” He traces limp fingers against Steve's sharp cheekbones. “But _I'm_ the lucky one.”

“I'm too tired to argue with you,” Steve whines, burying his face in Bucky's chest.

“Wait, say that again so I can get the quote right for the papers.”

Steve halfheartedly kicks him beneath the covers. “Yeah, real funny. You gonna get the window, or what?”

“Nah,” Bucky decides, noticing Steve's decided to use his chest as a pillow. He wraps an arm around Steve's skinny little waist, pressing a kiss to the top of his head for good measure. His lips smack when he pulls away, and he lets his eyes slide shut. For the first time in a good long while, he sees no battlefields on the dark insides of his eyelids. “Fella's probably just in heat, lookin' for some good company. It'd be rude to shut him out. Might shake his confidence.”

“Good. Don't want you to move.” Steve tugs Bucky's arm tighter around himself and sighs, long and happy. “I swear I could stay right here my whole life.”

Bucky's eyes fly open, and he suddenly has to _look_ at him. “Your whole life, huh?” he asks, voice a few notes higher than normal.

“Yeah,” Steve yawns, nestling closer. “My whole life.”

“Huh,” Bucky breathes. And he gets no answer from the song of the lonesome tomcat, or the warmth of Steve's breath coming gentle and slow over the spot where his own heart flutters like the wings of a caged thing, but before he falls asleep, he manages to scrape up the courage to do something real stupid come morning anyway.

~+~+~+~+~+~

“Where were you?” Steve calls from the kitchen when Bucky fumbles the door shut a full hour late.

“Work,” Bucky lies. “Johnson's back was acting up, boss asked me to help cover for him, couldn't say no.” The tiny weight in his pocket threatens to pull him through the floor, but he manages to slip it into Steve's coat where it's hanging by the door a half second before Steve rounds the corner.

“Well, I missed you,” Steve tells him, tilting up on his toes for a quick kiss. Then he frowns. “Any reason you're still standing here in your coat and shoes?”

“Yeah,” says Bucky, and it comes out hoarse. He clears his throat. “I was thinking we could walk down to the bridge. To...walk.”

Steve furrows his brow. “You okay there, Barnes?”

“'Course I am,” Bucky rushes out, his stomach doing enough flips to make the rest of him dizzy, too. “Why, do I not look okay?”

“No, it's...never mind,” Steve says, squinting up at him like there's a crossword on his face. “I'd love to go though, I've been cooped up in here all day, let me just grab my sketchbook.”

“Don't forget your coat!” Bucky calls after him, holding it out. Steve just blinks at him. “It might get chilly,” he stumbles out, willing himself to _calm down_ _already_.

“Right,” Steve says slowly, taking it and putting it on. “You sure you're feeling okay?”

Bucky flashes a smile. “Just peachy,” he says, and holds open the door.

The walk to the bridge is somewhat harrowing, giving Bucky plenty of time to doubt every decision he's ever made, then convince himself that this is absolutely going to fail for good measure, and all the while forcing him to stomp the turmoil down to keep it from reaching his face, lest Steve stop chattering about his day and notice his impending implosion. But once they get where they're going and Steve's face opens wide and clear as he marvels at the sight of sculpted stone and metal hanging over the water like he's the luckiest guy alive, all that melts away.

This is the place.

Bucky lets Steve lead the way, and they stop as soon as something worth drawing catches his eye. He watches him work, sweeping out thick, clean lines that become the bridge they're standing on, and shading lighter ripples and bands for the water and the sky, his hands collecting charcoal dust all the while. Steve reaches up to brush a bit of hair off his forehead, and his fingertips leave smudges behind, and Bucky decides he can't wait for one second longer.

“Stevie?” he says, falling even more in love to see the softness on Steve's face when he glances up to meet his eye. “I've gotta ask you something.”

Steve closes his sketchbook. “What is it?”

“Hold on, lemme tie my shoe first,” he says, crouching down on one knee and fumbling with his laces.

“It's already tied,” Steve laughs, looking at him like he's nuts.

“I know.” Bucky chances one last glance to the side to make sure nobody's noticed them, then swallows hard and doesn't turn back. “Do me a favor and stick your hand in your coat pocket? Don't...take it out, just feel it.” Clearly humoring him, Steve does as he asks.

Bucky sees the exact moment Steve realizes it's a ring. “Holy _shit_ , Barnes, what're you – ”

“Steven Grant Rogers,” Bucky interrupts, hands trembling where they're clutching his shoelaces and a smile spreading across his face like liquid gold, “I've wanted to do this since we were kids.”

“Oh my God,” Steve whispers through the hand not fisted in his pocket.

“I don't know when my number's gonna come up, or what'll happen to me over there, or – or when I'll come home,” Bucky says, the words he practiced escaping in a rush. “And this – this would only be for us, we'd have to keep it to ourselves, but before I leave, I need you to know that you're the best part of my life, and I love you – I love you _so_ fucking much, and I wanna keep doing that forever, if you'll let me.” No matter how hard he tries, Bucky can't read Steve's face, all he's got to work with are his eyes, and they could be blown wide as dinner plates for any number of reasons. He sucks in a shaking breath. “And I can only pretend I'm tying my shoes for so long, Rogers, so...what do you say?”

When Steve lowers his hand and speaks, it comes out hoarse. “Buck, get up.”

Bucky obeys, knees quaking, his heart pounding out a warning against all the horrible ways Steve could break it at any moment –

– and then he blinks, and Steve's launched himself into his arms, and his soul is calm again.

Bucky doesn't know that the second they get home, Steve's going to put the ring on his finger and kiss him and kiss him and kiss him until they're both dizzy with it, and he doesn't know that he'll get his orders within six months. He doesn't know a thing about what the future holds for them, but standing there, Steve's arms flung about his neck and his face buried in his shoulder, nodding _yes_ over and over, he'd bet every penny he owns that it's something wonderful.

~+~+~+~+~+~

_In a closed and age-worn sketchbook, well hidden from the harsh lights of the display, there is one drawing pressed between many others. A dark-haired man, smiling, his back turned to a grayscale sunset. On the fourth finger of his left hand, in charcoal, the artist imagined a ring._

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the Simon and Garfunkel song, Bridge Over Troubled Water, mostly due to, well, the bridge. And the troubles.
> 
> This one's been rolling around in my head for months, I wrote most of it ages ago, but slowly let it slip away. Then, today, I found myself on a bus for five hours without a phone, and was suddenly extremely motivated to finish the job - which is sort of fitting, considering I got the idea for the proposal disguised as shoe-tying on a bus, which started this whole adventure off in the first place. Anyway, I hope this reads fluidly in spite of being written very un-fluidly! 
> 
> Shout-out to bbcemrys for the information regarding the Brooklyn Bridge, this non-New Yorker trying to write New York is forever in your debt.
> 
> Although I of course did some Googling as I wrote, I know very little about the nuts and bolts of WWII/the draft process so I deliberately kept it vague, but in case I screwed something up, if you're a history buff, uh, sorry.
> 
> Comments are love!


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